Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 3/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]
WARNING: There is a minor mention of suicidal thoughts here. It's mostly glossed over and not addressed in any depth, but you know - just in case.
Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
Chapter Two - Part One
Chapter Two - Part Two
Chapter Three - Part One
“That was interesting, wasn’t it?” John says.
“Was it, for you?” Sherlock asks. “It must have been the same old thing.”
John chuckles. “Not entirely,” he says. “Same conclusion, but you went about it a little differently.”
Sherlock wonders if he really should ask the next question - but who does he think he’s fooling? He’s never been able to resist a mystery. “What did I do?”
“You didn’t talk about your women friends that Burnwell had used, for one,” John says. “Was that story true?”
“Of course,” Sherlock says.
“Liar,” John replies with a chuckle.
Sherlock smiles. “Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know, to keep in practice?” John says. “Did you seriously make that all up to force a reaction out of Mary?”
Sherlock huffs. “It wasn’t all made up,” he says. “But it certainly wasn’t first-hand information.”
“You made them think a few rumours were fact,” John says, then shakes his head with another laugh. “I don’t know if that’s exactly ethical, but you got the same reaction as last time, anyway.”
“And what did I do to garner that?” Sherlock prompts. He considers hailing a taxi, then decides against it. It’s a lovely day and it’s very peaceful to be walking with John.
“You decided you wanted to speak with Arthur, and Lestrade offered you a phone conference,” John says. “You told Arthur exactly what had happened, and he was so shocked he started sputtering over the phone. Not to mention Alexander’s and Charlotte’s reactions. And then Mary fainted. It was a bit of a surprise.”
Sherlock smiles. “That’s what you were preparing for.”
“Well, for some sort of reaction,” John allows. “Oh, and then you took off to parts unknown and left me stranded back at the house.” He glances up at Sherlock. “Are you going to do that again?”
Sherlock shakes his head. No, he’s not letting John out of his sight. “I’m almost certain that Burnwell will have disposed of the scrap of jewellery he got,” he says. “I thought I’d put the word out amongst my contacts to keep an eye out for it. How did you react when you found out I knew Sir Richard?”
“Possibly my eyes tried to fall out of my head,” John says. “I imagine I didn’t make a great first impression.”
“You must have,” Sherlock says. “Why wouldn’t anyone like you?”
John gives Sherlock a side-long look. “I’m sure there are those who don’t,” he says.
Sherlock thinks about that, then lifts a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “There are a lot of idiots in the world,” he says. John barks out a surprised laugh.
“Thanks,” he says, bumping Sherlock’s arm companionably. “You explained it to me afterwards, about your actual station and all that. You’re a rich sod, aren’t you?”
“I get by,” Sherlock says.
“Yes, and then I started wondering why on earth you were looking for a flat-share when you had all that money,” John says. “You never did answer me, back then.”
“I don’t usually use my trust fund,” Sherlock says. “Not unless I have to. Normally I live on my own earnings. But certain things I splurge on - this coat, for instance, and I was prepared to spend on the rent if I couldn’t find a flatmate - for those, I tap the trust fund.”
“Just preference, then,” John says reflectively. “That’s nice.” He glances away. Expression #21. Is he embarrassed? “To be honest, I was having a rough time making ends meet. You all but told me to just use your card if I needed to. I couldn’t really bring myself to, though.”
“At all?” Sherlock asks.
John glances up thoughtfully. “Once,” he says. “Because I bought some groceries and the next day when I came down to make some curry, my groceries had all wound up in various experiments.”
“Sorry,” Sherlock offers.
“Forgiven,” John says, then laughs. “That’s the day I wound up having a row with the chip-and-pin machine in the shop,” he says. “Didn’t have enough money to get more food. Wasn’t going to feel bad about using your card after that.”
“You have a strong sense of pride,” Sherlock tells him. “If you were married, would you keep your accounts separate?”
John looks a little startled. “I suppose I’d keep mine separate, but open up a joint account,” he says reflectively. Then he falls silent as Sherlock hops over a railing and heads for Pixie. He waits by the side of the street while Sherlock has a quick word with her about the scrap of jewellery - reward in it for anyone who finds it, he implies. She’s more than enough to get the word out; he won’t need to bother with anyone else, not unless Lestrade shows up for help and he still doesn’t have anything.
“Joint account for household expenses,” John picks up without missing a beat when Sherlock returns. “You know, things we both need or want. And my own account for if there’s something I want to buy to spoil myself or him. I mean, it’d ruin the surprise if I bought a present and the statement showed the purchase for him to see, eh?”
Him. Sherlock’s mind is stuck on that word.
“Rather,” he says, a little faintly.
“All right there?” John asks, touching Sherlock’s arm.
“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock says. He is. John’s touch is warm through the coat and suit jacket and shirt. John’s touch cannot possibly be felt through the coat and suit jacket and shirt. This is absolutely ridiculous. Next he’ll be spouting poetry. “I don’t know if I’d keep my accounts separate, if I was married. I suppose I should hope for a partner who’s good with money. I can never seem to keep on top of that. Taxes are the bane of my life.”
John grins. “I’ve never had much trouble with those, myself,” he says. “Harry could never figure them out. Taxes always involved a lot of cursing on her part.”
“Mm, not so much cursing as various experiments on the flammable properties of paper,” Sherlock says, and John laughs delightedly.
“Think you’re the marrying sort, then?” John asks. “Get yourself someone who can do your taxes for you?”
“I’m not George Burnwell,” Sherlock says.
John raises his eyebrows. “Yes, that’s quite clear.”
Sherlock shakes his head impatiently. “I won’t change. I won’t promise to change. I’m terrible to live with, I know that. I don’t get social niceties. I don’t want to. The only people who are interested in me are interested because they think they’ll be the ones to change me. But I’m not George Burnwell.”
“You won’t lead them on,” John says in understanding. Sherlock’s shoulders relax in relief. John gets it. Then he flinches as John thumps him hard in the arm.
“What?” he asks, stopping in the middle of the street to give John a wounded look. Then he realises what sort of expression he’s wearing, and attempts to smooth out his face. He suspects, from the lurking amusement in John’s eyes, that he hasn’t been successful.
“Taking me just as an example,” John says. “I don’t particularly want you to change. Are changes going to be made? Sure. But it’s both ways. It’s called compromise, genius. Do I want body parts in the fridge with my food? No. But I’ll put up with that if you’ll put up with wrapping up your experiments so they don’t contaminate my food.”
Compromise, is it? Sherlock knows about it, in a theoretical sort of way, but it’s always seemed such a trite, unimportant thing. A word people parrot about relationships, but never actually engage in. He’s seen so many relationships die even when all involved parties keep bleating on about compromise.
Although. There’s a selection of human fingers that he’s boxed and labelled before putting away in the freezer. There are still more experiments that haven’t been separated and labelled, but that’s because he hasn’t had the time.
“Ah,” he manages to get out. Dear Lord. Dear Lord, how has he not noticed this before? So much for being a genius.
Human relations have always been his weakest point.
“Oh,” John says softly, looking up at him. “Figured it out, have you?”
And of course John had known all along. Of course he had.
“Back then,” Sherlock says. “Were we -”
John shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Sometimes I thought maybe we were heading that way. But I just didn’t know. And I never dared to ask.”
“What changed?” Sherlock breathes. “Why now?”
John scrubs his hand through his hair. “I died. I woke up in my past. I don’t know. All the things holding me back didn’t seem important anymore.” He pauses. “I figure, even if you don’t want me, you’ll just say no and you won’t let it bother you. And I’ll work around it, I won’t let it bother me, and I’ll keep helping you for as long as you’ll let me.”
Sherlock takes that in. It’s rather overwhelming information to absorb. What is he meant to say in response? The expression on John’s face is unnerving - some combination (Sherlock thinks) of fear (of the answer) and hope (for the answer) and surprise (for the location of this conversation, and what the hell are they doing talking about this in the street?) and something else Sherlock doesn’t dare look at too closely.
“Are you sure you’re good with the taxes?” Sherlock asks.
John stares at him for a few long moments, then dissolves into helpless laughter.
“I still don’t understand what happened,” Sherlock says. John’s fingers are sliding through his hair, knuckling into his scalp occasionally, twisting around and playing with the curls. Sherlock can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. It’s not a prelude to sex. It is intimate. He’s never allowed anyone into his bed before, either. But here they are, he and John, and it’s so very comfortable. Sherlock presses closer against John’s chest, listening to the murmurings of his body.
“About?” John asks after a moment.
“Your little bout of temporal displacement,” Sherlock clarifies.
John huffs a laugh. It shakes his chest a little, makes a small vibration Sherlock feels in his ear and through his cheek. “I don’t know,” John says. “The bomb exploded. You died, I know you did. I saw -” He stops talking, slides his hand down to the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock presses back slightly.
“I’m alive,” he murmurs.
John lets out a shaky breath. “Right,” he says. “Right. So. I don’t know what happened to Moriarty, or his snipers. All I remember was seeing you die, and then I must have been knocked out myself, killed for all I know, and then I woke up.”
“Doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock says. “People don’t wake up after dying. Especially not in the past.”
“I know I’m not on your calibre of genius,” John says dryly, “but that was what I figured, too.” A pause. “Except it happened. Or, hell, maybe the whole thing was a particularly vivid premonition of the future. I don’t know. All I know is, those three months happened for me, and everything that happened afterwards proved they were real.”
Sherlock listens to John breathe.
“I thought I’d gone insane, for a while,” John confesses.
“There’s one other thing I’d like to ask,” Sherlock says.
“Only one?” John asks wryly.
Sherlock raises his head, props his chin on his hands so that he can see John’s face. “Where did you get the gun?”
John’s eyebrows move up, digging furrows into his forehead. From this angle, the slight downward pull of his lips is even more pronounced. “Oh,” John says. “Old mate of mine. Well, not so much now, not really. But he owed me.”
Sherlock considers that. Yes, John’s slightly wilder days. It’s plausible. “One more question,” he says. John did say he could ask. John also said he might not answer. “Why did you need it?”
John’s eyes narrow and he looks away. The furrows are even deeper. “Doesn’t matter now,” he says.
“Was it in preparation for Moriarty?” Sherlock asks. He knows it wasn’t. All signs point to John having had the gun even before his time-travel/prophetic dream/marker of insanity.
John presses his lips together in a thin line. “Let’s say it was.”
“What was it really?” Sherlock pushes.
“What do you want me to say?” John asks, sighing. “You know the answer already, don’t you?”
He does. It doesn’t mean he wants to believe it. It’s only the third time in his life that Sherlock’s found himself refusing to believe the obvious. The first had been when he’d realised Mummy was undergoing chemotherapy. The second had been when he’d realised Mycroft had no time for his brother when there was work to be done. The answer sits in front of Sherlock, taunting him, but Sherlock can’t look at it, can’t acknowledge it even though it’s already sunk bone-deep into him.
“John,” Sherlock says. “John.”
“I never meant to have it long enough for it to be a problem,” John muses. “I mean, I didn’t think I’d have it very long at all.”
Sherlock swallows past a pesky lump of something stuck in his throat. “Why a gun?”
John smiles faintly. “It seemed appropriate,” he says. “I couldn’t stop dreaming. Your brother told me once - twice, then and now, he said I miss the battlefield. It’s not really true. Partly, but not quite -”
“You miss the rush,” Sherlock says. “You miss making a difference. Saving lives.”
“That’s the one,” John says. “I suppose I’ve always been an active sort, but that’s not really the important bit.”
Sherlock thinks about that for a moment. A chortle slips past his lips. “Mycroft was wrong,” he says in explanation, then laughs again at the positively delighted expression on John’s face. It’s a much better look on him, Sherlock decides, than what he’d been wearing just a few moments ago.
“You don’t anymore, do you?” Sherlock asks, after a moment.
There’s a very brief hesitation before John answers, so brief that barely anyone would have noticed. Sherlock does. “No,” John says, and Sherlock feels the blood draining from his cheeks.
“John,” he says, very quietly.
“Not in a while,” John amends, looking away.
“Not ever again,” Sherlock says. It sounds every bit as imperious as John is constantly accusing him of being. It feels like the weakest plea in the world. Sherlock crawls further up, sprawling all over John, tucking his face in the crook of John’s neck.
John puts his arms around Sherlock and tucks him in close. “All right,” he says. Even the acquiescence doesn’t take away the fear. Sherlock kisses John’s neck, his collarbone, his jaw. If he had been just a few days later meeting John. If John had been a few days, hours, minutes sooner in deciding.
He doesn’t want to think of this anymore. John draws him into a deep, messy kiss, and Sherlock gladly lets himself be distracted.
It is a little inconvenient, Sherlock will admit, to be set upon by an assassin in your own home.
He is grappling with the man for the sword when all of a sudden, the assassin lets out a muffled squeak and collapses to the floor. Sherlock blinks in bemusement, holding on to his suddenly-gained prize of a very sharp sword. A tin of some sort slowly rolls away to hide under the table.
At the door, John’s arm is still extended in throwing position.
“John,” Sherlock says slowly. “Did you just attack an assassin with tinned soup?”
John glances at the man he’s just laid out. “No,” he says, and Sherlock gives him his most disbelieving look. “It wasn’t soup, it was tinned tomatoes,” John mutters, and retreats to the kitchen.
Sherlock whips the assassin’s turban off his head and ties him up briskly, then shoots off a brief message to Lestrade: Have an assassin tied up on my doorstep. Do what you will with him. He drags the man down the stairs, opens the door, and heaves the man outside. As an afterthought, he finds a notebook and pen in his pocket, scribbles a note (This man is a criminal. I would not suggest freeing him.) and attaches it to the still-unconscious assassin’s chest. Apparently, tinned tomatoes pack more of a punch than he’d ever suspected. Then he closes the door on the disturbed looks from passers-by and heads back up the stairs at a steady clip.
John’s inspecting the table when he comes in. “That’s where the scratch came from,” he says triumphantly. “I’d wondered. So this is what you were doing while I was out rowing with the chip-and-pin machine the last time.”
“John, would you turn around, please?” Sherlock says politely.
John obligingly does so. Sherlock takes great pleasure in kissing that damnably amused look off his face.
“I’ll have to keep a stock of tins on hand, if that’s the response I’ll get,” John muses out loud, when Sherlock finally lets him up for air.
“You do that,” Sherlock says. “Might get cumbersome, though.”
“Might,” John agrees. Then his eyes light up in remembrance. “Have you checked your email yet?”
“Just before I was interrupted by that assassin, yes,” Sherlock says. “Sebastian sent me an email. But then, you knew that.”
“I wasn’t sure the Tong’d still manage to get in themselves,” John says. “Moriarty was teasing me, before, when he’d kidnapped me, and I think probably he was the one who helped them get into the country. I guess they managed all right on their own anyway.”
“It would appear so,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t want to think about Moriarty. He presses John back against the table. It’s quite pleasant to have John’s body pressed all along his. “Shall we see if this goes off the same again?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t,” John says. “We’ll try and get our hands on General Shan this time.”
“The ringleader?” Sherlock asks. “Did I fail to get her last time?”
“Unfortunately,” John says.
“I know I didn’t want you to tell me anything before,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. He tugs at John’s jacket, arranges it neatly on him. “But I’ve changed my mind for this one. Tell me everything.”
“All right,” John says, then pauses and abruptly flushes red. “Most things. Some things I’ll leave out.”
“They could be important,” Sherlock says.
“They’re really, really not,” John says fervently. “They’re not relevant at all.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He’ll get to the bottom of this sooner or later. For now, he needs to prepare himself to meet Sebastian again. It shouldn’t be too hard. He’ll have John with him. “Bank,” he decides, and finally lets go of John. “You can tell me everything on the way. Shall we be off?”
He sees a ghost of a grin in John’s eyes as he replies. “Oh, god, yes.”
~fin
I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night. Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle! - Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
Admit it. How many of you thought the title was just riffing off the title of the third ep? >D
As always, CC is much appreciated!
Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
Chapter Two - Part One
Chapter Two - Part Two
Chapter Three - Part One
“That was interesting, wasn’t it?” John says.
“Was it, for you?” Sherlock asks. “It must have been the same old thing.”
John chuckles. “Not entirely,” he says. “Same conclusion, but you went about it a little differently.”
Sherlock wonders if he really should ask the next question - but who does he think he’s fooling? He’s never been able to resist a mystery. “What did I do?”
“You didn’t talk about your women friends that Burnwell had used, for one,” John says. “Was that story true?”
“Of course,” Sherlock says.
“Liar,” John replies with a chuckle.
Sherlock smiles. “Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know, to keep in practice?” John says. “Did you seriously make that all up to force a reaction out of Mary?”
Sherlock huffs. “It wasn’t all made up,” he says. “But it certainly wasn’t first-hand information.”
“You made them think a few rumours were fact,” John says, then shakes his head with another laugh. “I don’t know if that’s exactly ethical, but you got the same reaction as last time, anyway.”
“And what did I do to garner that?” Sherlock prompts. He considers hailing a taxi, then decides against it. It’s a lovely day and it’s very peaceful to be walking with John.
“You decided you wanted to speak with Arthur, and Lestrade offered you a phone conference,” John says. “You told Arthur exactly what had happened, and he was so shocked he started sputtering over the phone. Not to mention Alexander’s and Charlotte’s reactions. And then Mary fainted. It was a bit of a surprise.”
Sherlock smiles. “That’s what you were preparing for.”
“Well, for some sort of reaction,” John allows. “Oh, and then you took off to parts unknown and left me stranded back at the house.” He glances up at Sherlock. “Are you going to do that again?”
Sherlock shakes his head. No, he’s not letting John out of his sight. “I’m almost certain that Burnwell will have disposed of the scrap of jewellery he got,” he says. “I thought I’d put the word out amongst my contacts to keep an eye out for it. How did you react when you found out I knew Sir Richard?”
“Possibly my eyes tried to fall out of my head,” John says. “I imagine I didn’t make a great first impression.”
“You must have,” Sherlock says. “Why wouldn’t anyone like you?”
John gives Sherlock a side-long look. “I’m sure there are those who don’t,” he says.
Sherlock thinks about that, then lifts a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “There are a lot of idiots in the world,” he says. John barks out a surprised laugh.
“Thanks,” he says, bumping Sherlock’s arm companionably. “You explained it to me afterwards, about your actual station and all that. You’re a rich sod, aren’t you?”
“I get by,” Sherlock says.
“Yes, and then I started wondering why on earth you were looking for a flat-share when you had all that money,” John says. “You never did answer me, back then.”
“I don’t usually use my trust fund,” Sherlock says. “Not unless I have to. Normally I live on my own earnings. But certain things I splurge on - this coat, for instance, and I was prepared to spend on the rent if I couldn’t find a flatmate - for those, I tap the trust fund.”
“Just preference, then,” John says reflectively. “That’s nice.” He glances away. Expression #21. Is he embarrassed? “To be honest, I was having a rough time making ends meet. You all but told me to just use your card if I needed to. I couldn’t really bring myself to, though.”
“At all?” Sherlock asks.
John glances up thoughtfully. “Once,” he says. “Because I bought some groceries and the next day when I came down to make some curry, my groceries had all wound up in various experiments.”
“Sorry,” Sherlock offers.
“Forgiven,” John says, then laughs. “That’s the day I wound up having a row with the chip-and-pin machine in the shop,” he says. “Didn’t have enough money to get more food. Wasn’t going to feel bad about using your card after that.”
“You have a strong sense of pride,” Sherlock tells him. “If you were married, would you keep your accounts separate?”
John looks a little startled. “I suppose I’d keep mine separate, but open up a joint account,” he says reflectively. Then he falls silent as Sherlock hops over a railing and heads for Pixie. He waits by the side of the street while Sherlock has a quick word with her about the scrap of jewellery - reward in it for anyone who finds it, he implies. She’s more than enough to get the word out; he won’t need to bother with anyone else, not unless Lestrade shows up for help and he still doesn’t have anything.
“Joint account for household expenses,” John picks up without missing a beat when Sherlock returns. “You know, things we both need or want. And my own account for if there’s something I want to buy to spoil myself or him. I mean, it’d ruin the surprise if I bought a present and the statement showed the purchase for him to see, eh?”
Him. Sherlock’s mind is stuck on that word.
“Rather,” he says, a little faintly.
“All right there?” John asks, touching Sherlock’s arm.
“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock says. He is. John’s touch is warm through the coat and suit jacket and shirt. John’s touch cannot possibly be felt through the coat and suit jacket and shirt. This is absolutely ridiculous. Next he’ll be spouting poetry. “I don’t know if I’d keep my accounts separate, if I was married. I suppose I should hope for a partner who’s good with money. I can never seem to keep on top of that. Taxes are the bane of my life.”
John grins. “I’ve never had much trouble with those, myself,” he says. “Harry could never figure them out. Taxes always involved a lot of cursing on her part.”
“Mm, not so much cursing as various experiments on the flammable properties of paper,” Sherlock says, and John laughs delightedly.
“Think you’re the marrying sort, then?” John asks. “Get yourself someone who can do your taxes for you?”
“I’m not George Burnwell,” Sherlock says.
John raises his eyebrows. “Yes, that’s quite clear.”
Sherlock shakes his head impatiently. “I won’t change. I won’t promise to change. I’m terrible to live with, I know that. I don’t get social niceties. I don’t want to. The only people who are interested in me are interested because they think they’ll be the ones to change me. But I’m not George Burnwell.”
“You won’t lead them on,” John says in understanding. Sherlock’s shoulders relax in relief. John gets it. Then he flinches as John thumps him hard in the arm.
“What?” he asks, stopping in the middle of the street to give John a wounded look. Then he realises what sort of expression he’s wearing, and attempts to smooth out his face. He suspects, from the lurking amusement in John’s eyes, that he hasn’t been successful.
“Taking me just as an example,” John says. “I don’t particularly want you to change. Are changes going to be made? Sure. But it’s both ways. It’s called compromise, genius. Do I want body parts in the fridge with my food? No. But I’ll put up with that if you’ll put up with wrapping up your experiments so they don’t contaminate my food.”
Compromise, is it? Sherlock knows about it, in a theoretical sort of way, but it’s always seemed such a trite, unimportant thing. A word people parrot about relationships, but never actually engage in. He’s seen so many relationships die even when all involved parties keep bleating on about compromise.
Although. There’s a selection of human fingers that he’s boxed and labelled before putting away in the freezer. There are still more experiments that haven’t been separated and labelled, but that’s because he hasn’t had the time.
“Ah,” he manages to get out. Dear Lord. Dear Lord, how has he not noticed this before? So much for being a genius.
Human relations have always been his weakest point.
“Oh,” John says softly, looking up at him. “Figured it out, have you?”
And of course John had known all along. Of course he had.
“Back then,” Sherlock says. “Were we -”
John shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Sometimes I thought maybe we were heading that way. But I just didn’t know. And I never dared to ask.”
“What changed?” Sherlock breathes. “Why now?”
John scrubs his hand through his hair. “I died. I woke up in my past. I don’t know. All the things holding me back didn’t seem important anymore.” He pauses. “I figure, even if you don’t want me, you’ll just say no and you won’t let it bother you. And I’ll work around it, I won’t let it bother me, and I’ll keep helping you for as long as you’ll let me.”
Sherlock takes that in. It’s rather overwhelming information to absorb. What is he meant to say in response? The expression on John’s face is unnerving - some combination (Sherlock thinks) of fear (of the answer) and hope (for the answer) and surprise (for the location of this conversation, and what the hell are they doing talking about this in the street?) and something else Sherlock doesn’t dare look at too closely.
“Are you sure you’re good with the taxes?” Sherlock asks.
John stares at him for a few long moments, then dissolves into helpless laughter.
“I still don’t understand what happened,” Sherlock says. John’s fingers are sliding through his hair, knuckling into his scalp occasionally, twisting around and playing with the curls. Sherlock can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. It’s not a prelude to sex. It is intimate. He’s never allowed anyone into his bed before, either. But here they are, he and John, and it’s so very comfortable. Sherlock presses closer against John’s chest, listening to the murmurings of his body.
“About?” John asks after a moment.
“Your little bout of temporal displacement,” Sherlock clarifies.
John huffs a laugh. It shakes his chest a little, makes a small vibration Sherlock feels in his ear and through his cheek. “I don’t know,” John says. “The bomb exploded. You died, I know you did. I saw -” He stops talking, slides his hand down to the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock presses back slightly.
“I’m alive,” he murmurs.
John lets out a shaky breath. “Right,” he says. “Right. So. I don’t know what happened to Moriarty, or his snipers. All I remember was seeing you die, and then I must have been knocked out myself, killed for all I know, and then I woke up.”
“Doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock says. “People don’t wake up after dying. Especially not in the past.”
“I know I’m not on your calibre of genius,” John says dryly, “but that was what I figured, too.” A pause. “Except it happened. Or, hell, maybe the whole thing was a particularly vivid premonition of the future. I don’t know. All I know is, those three months happened for me, and everything that happened afterwards proved they were real.”
Sherlock listens to John breathe.
“I thought I’d gone insane, for a while,” John confesses.
“There’s one other thing I’d like to ask,” Sherlock says.
“Only one?” John asks wryly.
Sherlock raises his head, props his chin on his hands so that he can see John’s face. “Where did you get the gun?”
John’s eyebrows move up, digging furrows into his forehead. From this angle, the slight downward pull of his lips is even more pronounced. “Oh,” John says. “Old mate of mine. Well, not so much now, not really. But he owed me.”
Sherlock considers that. Yes, John’s slightly wilder days. It’s plausible. “One more question,” he says. John did say he could ask. John also said he might not answer. “Why did you need it?”
John’s eyes narrow and he looks away. The furrows are even deeper. “Doesn’t matter now,” he says.
“Was it in preparation for Moriarty?” Sherlock asks. He knows it wasn’t. All signs point to John having had the gun even before his time-travel/prophetic dream/marker of insanity.
John presses his lips together in a thin line. “Let’s say it was.”
“What was it really?” Sherlock pushes.
“What do you want me to say?” John asks, sighing. “You know the answer already, don’t you?”
He does. It doesn’t mean he wants to believe it. It’s only the third time in his life that Sherlock’s found himself refusing to believe the obvious. The first had been when he’d realised Mummy was undergoing chemotherapy. The second had been when he’d realised Mycroft had no time for his brother when there was work to be done. The answer sits in front of Sherlock, taunting him, but Sherlock can’t look at it, can’t acknowledge it even though it’s already sunk bone-deep into him.
“John,” Sherlock says. “John.”
“I never meant to have it long enough for it to be a problem,” John muses. “I mean, I didn’t think I’d have it very long at all.”
Sherlock swallows past a pesky lump of something stuck in his throat. “Why a gun?”
John smiles faintly. “It seemed appropriate,” he says. “I couldn’t stop dreaming. Your brother told me once - twice, then and now, he said I miss the battlefield. It’s not really true. Partly, but not quite -”
“You miss the rush,” Sherlock says. “You miss making a difference. Saving lives.”
“That’s the one,” John says. “I suppose I’ve always been an active sort, but that’s not really the important bit.”
Sherlock thinks about that for a moment. A chortle slips past his lips. “Mycroft was wrong,” he says in explanation, then laughs again at the positively delighted expression on John’s face. It’s a much better look on him, Sherlock decides, than what he’d been wearing just a few moments ago.
“You don’t anymore, do you?” Sherlock asks, after a moment.
There’s a very brief hesitation before John answers, so brief that barely anyone would have noticed. Sherlock does. “No,” John says, and Sherlock feels the blood draining from his cheeks.
“John,” he says, very quietly.
“Not in a while,” John amends, looking away.
“Not ever again,” Sherlock says. It sounds every bit as imperious as John is constantly accusing him of being. It feels like the weakest plea in the world. Sherlock crawls further up, sprawling all over John, tucking his face in the crook of John’s neck.
John puts his arms around Sherlock and tucks him in close. “All right,” he says. Even the acquiescence doesn’t take away the fear. Sherlock kisses John’s neck, his collarbone, his jaw. If he had been just a few days later meeting John. If John had been a few days, hours, minutes sooner in deciding.
He doesn’t want to think of this anymore. John draws him into a deep, messy kiss, and Sherlock gladly lets himself be distracted.
It is a little inconvenient, Sherlock will admit, to be set upon by an assassin in your own home.
He is grappling with the man for the sword when all of a sudden, the assassin lets out a muffled squeak and collapses to the floor. Sherlock blinks in bemusement, holding on to his suddenly-gained prize of a very sharp sword. A tin of some sort slowly rolls away to hide under the table.
At the door, John’s arm is still extended in throwing position.
“John,” Sherlock says slowly. “Did you just attack an assassin with tinned soup?”
John glances at the man he’s just laid out. “No,” he says, and Sherlock gives him his most disbelieving look. “It wasn’t soup, it was tinned tomatoes,” John mutters, and retreats to the kitchen.
Sherlock whips the assassin’s turban off his head and ties him up briskly, then shoots off a brief message to Lestrade: Have an assassin tied up on my doorstep. Do what you will with him. He drags the man down the stairs, opens the door, and heaves the man outside. As an afterthought, he finds a notebook and pen in his pocket, scribbles a note (This man is a criminal. I would not suggest freeing him.) and attaches it to the still-unconscious assassin’s chest. Apparently, tinned tomatoes pack more of a punch than he’d ever suspected. Then he closes the door on the disturbed looks from passers-by and heads back up the stairs at a steady clip.
John’s inspecting the table when he comes in. “That’s where the scratch came from,” he says triumphantly. “I’d wondered. So this is what you were doing while I was out rowing with the chip-and-pin machine the last time.”
“John, would you turn around, please?” Sherlock says politely.
John obligingly does so. Sherlock takes great pleasure in kissing that damnably amused look off his face.
“I’ll have to keep a stock of tins on hand, if that’s the response I’ll get,” John muses out loud, when Sherlock finally lets him up for air.
“You do that,” Sherlock says. “Might get cumbersome, though.”
“Might,” John agrees. Then his eyes light up in remembrance. “Have you checked your email yet?”
“Just before I was interrupted by that assassin, yes,” Sherlock says. “Sebastian sent me an email. But then, you knew that.”
“I wasn’t sure the Tong’d still manage to get in themselves,” John says. “Moriarty was teasing me, before, when he’d kidnapped me, and I think probably he was the one who helped them get into the country. I guess they managed all right on their own anyway.”
“It would appear so,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t want to think about Moriarty. He presses John back against the table. It’s quite pleasant to have John’s body pressed all along his. “Shall we see if this goes off the same again?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t,” John says. “We’ll try and get our hands on General Shan this time.”
“The ringleader?” Sherlock asks. “Did I fail to get her last time?”
“Unfortunately,” John says.
“I know I didn’t want you to tell me anything before,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. He tugs at John’s jacket, arranges it neatly on him. “But I’ve changed my mind for this one. Tell me everything.”
“All right,” John says, then pauses and abruptly flushes red. “Most things. Some things I’ll leave out.”
“They could be important,” Sherlock says.
“They’re really, really not,” John says fervently. “They’re not relevant at all.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He’ll get to the bottom of this sooner or later. For now, he needs to prepare himself to meet Sebastian again. It shouldn’t be too hard. He’ll have John with him. “Bank,” he decides, and finally lets go of John. “You can tell me everything on the way. Shall we be off?”
He sees a ghost of a grin in John’s eyes as he replies. “Oh, god, yes.”
~fin
I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night. Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle! - Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
Admit it. How many of you thought the title was just riffing off the title of the third ep? >D
As always, CC is much appreciated!